This might not make the most sense but if I donât write it I know Iâll be angry with myself.Â
As someone who has always naturally been drawn to archives and journals and stories- Iâve found that Iâve been trapping myself in the narrative. The idea that life is a singular, vertical narrative, that pain is not simply pain but part of some bigger cycle of distribution and retribution. That pain is naturally repaid with love or safety or comfort. This narrative keeps me coddled in myself, it keeps me safe from having to face the fact that tomorrow might not be easier than today. That this year might not feel much better than last year. That as some things go on, they donât always get lighter. They donât alchemize from emotionally pain into material pleasure.Â
The heroâs journey tells us that the narrative follows simple steps. We are called- your alarm, a Britney Spears song, plays in the morning. Your car breaks down in an unfamiliar part of the city. Thereâs a death in the family. Whatever it is, the call is something that moves us from familiarity to the unknown. It pulls the hero into the journey. We will then face the unknown and hopefully overcome it. But what about the calls that we donât answer? Or when we get stuck in the unknown? What about when we are braver than brave and we still cannot overcome everything? Iâve learned that sometimes our pain doesnât come with atonement. Sometimes there is no return.Â
Life doesnât fit into the narrative. The alarm in itself is a narrative, you set it the night before, or maybe you set it three years ago and youâve been waking up to the same song every single day. The car is a narrative, the unfamiliar side of the city is a narrative. Why havenât you been there? The death is a narrative explored and experienced by every person in your family, every friend of the dead, every coworker who called the morning after to see why they didnât show up when their alarm went off that day. Everything is a million narratives coinciding and to trap ourselves into one, to tell ourselves only one story, is blinding us to the intricate nature of life. We cannot exist in only one dimension, and to choose to exist in various different- sometimes beautiful and sometimes horrible- narratives at once is to choose to stop coddling oneself, to stop following your pain like it always has something to give you.Â
Sometimes it doesnât. Maybe thatâs fine.Â